


Thistle and Clover

by averts



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Graphic Depictions of a Corpse, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-08 22:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18904141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/averts/pseuds/averts
Summary: Where was everyone Arthur had ever loved during his last moments? Charles cursed himself for not being there, either. For convincing himself Arthur might just pull through like he always had.  In reality, he couldn't sit by and watch him fade away any longer. But now, interring his own heart in the ground, he was faced head-on with his mistake and the untimely death of Arthur Morgan.





	1. Nettles

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first long fic for my very first event and I'm so excited to finally post, but I'd also like to take the time to thank everyone who helped me along in making this happen! 
> 
> Magisey/Sey, a very dear and close friend who helped me build the bulk of this fic and encouraged me through to the end, and beta'd for me. Without you I dont think I would have found the motivation to finish, thank you so much<3
> 
> And the amazing artist who chose this work, sinkat-arts on tumblr!  
> Thier absolutely wonderful [art can be found here](https://sinkat-arts.tumblr.com/post/185077360153/and-i-hope-someday-you-can-read-this-and-find), and embedded in the final chapter as well! Please check it out, they've done such an amazing job capturing the fic's ending scene.
> 
> You've been endlessly supportive and I'm so grateful that you've provided wonderful artwork for this story. I know we've both been through a hard time during this event, I'm so thankful you've been so understanding and encouraging!

     Flies greeted him, their flight so loud it reminded him of a swarm of locust descending upon the mountain around him, feasting on what was left of a great conflict. The carcasses of two horses had led the way, starting the trail off the main road, bodies taut with rigor and insects staking claim over their blackening flesh.  He recognized them both, one a wiry little thing, dark and spotted in white. The other a great silver-maned stallion. He knew these horses, and that reopened the pit deep in his stomach, one that yawned wide and threatened to swallow him whole.

     Many of the men had been collected already, but some still lay in the long grass, scattered here or there where they'd been felled. Sloppily, too, riddled with body shots. It wasn't like his partner's usual accuracy and ironic mercy. Charles followed as the story unfolded all the way up to the peak, brushing fingers over a small boulder pocked from gunfire. There was a cliff to his side, an updraft bringing warm air over him that did little to soothe the clammy and uncomfortable chill that had settled heavy within. The body he was searching for was nowhere to be seen up here, and with a deep breath, he gathered his courage to look over the edge.

     Red flowers dotted ground below and a slip of blue stood out among the spring growth, Arthur was blanketed in the soft grass and faced the morning's gentle origin. He seemed at peace, despite his being left to fester in this lonesome place. What was left of Arthur fed into the earth now, mostly gone to rot or the animals, and he tried not to look too closely above his collar. There was blood on his blue shirt, splattered down from coughs he assumed. There were teeth marks on his coat, one sleeve ripped from a particularly determined animal. The insects mostly had taken over his body, scattering as Charles gently nudged one arm, backing away at the too soft give of the sleeve, spongy and bloated. Plants had grown thick around the nutrient-rich body; flowers, weeds, and nettles framed him.

     But he didn't lay naturally, limbs at odd angles for having laid down or chosen to be where he was now, and any marks through the brush that would tell him whether or not Arthur had been drug along the ground were long gone. Two wounds stood out the most, bullet wounds in his chest, ones that hadn't stained his clothing with blood. Most signs of any violence were grown over with new life by now or washed away by the rain, and Charles wished desperately his own feelings could have met the same fate. So easy it was for the land here to seem to forget, to move on and continue life. Anger flared for a moment before he took a deep breath, staring out over the view he hoped Arthur had been able to see as he slipped away. The forest swayed in the breeze, birds sang, he was sure hundreds of animals went about their lives completely unphased by the tragedy that had unfolded here.

     Charles stood and allowed himself a moment, fists closed tight and his jaw clenched to the point of gritting his teeth. It wasn't fair he was left alone to pick up the pieces of the gang's fallout, stitching together what they'd torn to pieces in the end. Or, at least the parts of it left to be mended. He'd buried Grimshaw the day before and spent the rest of it finding his way here from the hollow where their last camp had been left to rot away. While most of it had, he'd managed to scavenge a spade and pickaxe, two things he needed rarely enough on his own to justify packing around.  As rusted as they were from the months of spring rain, they were still sturdy enough to serve their purpose. Arthur's wagon had still been in the hollow, most everything was, but prized possessions he knew the other would have come back for eventually had been left to fade away.

     Charles had expected to come back to a body, in some shape or form, but not someone so beloved laid bare like this. It ached him to leave Arthur behind for now, but he was woefully unprepared to have to move him. It felt wrong to bury him here where he'd passed in such a horrible way, to put him in ground tainted by pain and bad memories, but there was no way to move him with the meager supplies he carried along on horseback.

     Falmouth waited patiently for him at the foot of the mountain, wary of the corpses in his shape nearby and seemingly generally uneasy. He was a fickle horse, a far cry from his calm Taima, left with the Wapiti in solidarity and a promise to return someday soon. There was no time to hitch a wagon, and he had taken extra canvas along, originally to pitch a tent if the weather finally broke but now he was pondering other uses for the length of cloth. There was enough to half it, laying on length out beside Arthur and eventually covering him with the canvas. He began to wrap Arthur in his new shroud, as carefully as he could considering his state. The nettles pricked at his arms as he worked, their gentle brushing quickly turning to insidious stings, leaving welts in their angry wake. It burned, but Charles did his best to ignore the stings, the pain of disturbing the plants so much less than the hurt inside. He gagged at the stench, cold guilt panging in him at something that seemed so disrespectful, but there was no helping it.

     Working late into the afternoon, Charles ended up having constructed a litter with more of the canvas and two sturdy pieces of thick branch, returning up the crest of the mountain to gently settle the body onto the makeshift stretcher. Falmouth fussed as the litter was tied down to the saddle, uneasy with such a loud and heavy thing dragging along the ground behind him. Charles set out towards the lake he'd passed coming here, taking their journey at a walk and using the time to ponder over his current situation.

     He'd taken them both past the lake late in the afternoon, stiff in the saddle as they walked along down the mountain towards a haven Charles wasn't sure existed yet. Somewhere nice and facing the sunset, secluded and unlikely to be found until expansion eventually crept up the mountain years from now. Arthur had always said he felt at home in untamed places, away from people and settlement, and it only seemed right for him to be given a permanent rest in such a place.

     They wandered until he found it, a semi-secluded spot off the path and nestled near the edge of a slight drop off, overlooking the great ravine near the Bacchus bridge. Short work was made of unpacking and hiking up the hill, meandering until he settled on a place, breaking ground in an oddly unceremonious fashion.

     Charles wanted to scream, to loose his frustrations up to the sky and be done with them. He wanted to cry and salt the earth that would soon lay heavy over the only person he'd grown close to in his adult life, but such sorrow would be unbecoming to a long late grave. A grave no one had come back to dig for him, despite knowing where he lay. Where was everyone Arthur had ever loved during his last moments? Charles cursed himself for not being there, either. For convincing himself Arthur might just pull through like he always had.  In reality, he couldn't sit by and watch him fade away any longer. But now, interring his own heart in the ground, he was faced head-on with his mistake and the untimely death of Arthur Morgan.

     The spade in hand struck the ground with increasing fervor as he thought, lost in his anger and boring a hole into both the ground and his heart in equal measures. Where was everyone? Who else had left him here, alone and cold? He had, and would have to come to terms with that, but who else? Hollowness struck him after the shock and anger had passed, worked from him through the spade he clutched tightly as if he might collapse into the grave himself without it.

     His forearms still burned with the stings from the nettle and now tired from work, brushed with dirt here and there, scratched from the bushes and rocks carrying the litter up the hillside. Exhaustion shook his frame as he climbed from the grave, covering the short distance between it and where the litter lay, gathering himself before dragging it back. Lowering the body and litter into the ground was far more taxing than he was expecting, and it took everything Charles had left not to drop him. The body settled into the shallow grave with a finality that threatened to make him sick, the rope going slack as he dropped it and slumped onto the ground.

     Curling onto his side he faced away from the open grave, uncomfortable over the scattering of stones and sticks, but too tired to move any further. It was quiet up here, away from trees and any large bushes for the animals, but it was a peaceful quiet where noises were present but far away. There was a road nearby for company, but not close enough to be disturbing. It was a good place, he reaffirmed, brushing a hand through the grass and listening silently to the afternoon birdsong.

     The sun hung heavy in the sky by the time he arose once again, hauling to his feet and retrieving the spade. The earth was replaced where it'd been torn up, creating a mound on top where it remained displaced by the man buried beneath, settling heavy over the resting place. Charles simply dropped it to the side when he was finished, trudging down the hillside once again to gather his horse. They headed south away from the grave, into the thicker forest where it would be safest to set up camp for the night, sheltered by the canopy and close-quartered trees.

 


	2. Thistle

_'Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled.'_  

     They were pretty words from a book Swanson liked to mutter from occasionally around the fire, where they would all listen and sometimes pretend they understood the verses. Carved into the cross he'd brought back from town, they now held a certain finality he wasn't sure he was still comfortable with. He wasn't sure if Arthur had been religious, he'd never practiced or spoken about it, but Charles assumed adoring his cross with the phrase would cause no harm. The phrase seemed fitting from what little knowledge he did have towards the passages; Arthur had done good in the end and likely more than he knew throughout his life. In the end, he assumed, perhaps he had been satisfied in some way with what he'd left behind. He didn't know what had become of anyone, scattered away in the fallout, but he hoped Arthur had been able to pass on believing he'd accomplished his dying wishes. 

     The stings from the nettles were long faded by now, but brushing through the grass to find rocks heavy enough to prop up the cross still send slight twinges across his arm, expecting there to be pain when there was none. Within half an hour the neat white cross stood at the head of the grave, adorned with a few flowers he'd plucked while working. Charles stood at the foot of the grave for quite a while afterward, reading over the phrase again and again until the entire scene seemed to be burned into his very memory. 

     It was a memory that stuck with him through the months that followed, wandering aimlessly across the familiar stretches of land and towns, grateful he'd been absent from the vast majority of the gang's antics. Charles picked up odd jobs here and there, ranch work or deliveries, before sulking off at the end of the workday to be on his own. It felt odd to be around others after everything that had happened, he expected to come back to camp sometimes still, to be able to be around people he knew at night and not worry too much about who he fell asleep around. But now most nights were spent alone or with people he couldn't even bring himself to trust, permanently uneasy again as he had been for most of his life before the gang. 

     Years passed before he'd found himself in the street fights, witnessing the underground rings several times before he decided he may as well try his hand in it before moving on. Besides the obvious exploitation of the entire situation, Charles did well in every aspect, and for a good chunk of time, the fights were his sole income. And then he was noticed by seasoned betters, hired to throw the fights here and there, and then some more until they sought him out regularly. It went from being a fling, quick money for not too much pain, to being morphed and perverted into an outlet for his anger and hurt. Sometimes, on the worst days, it felt better to let it out through the matches than it did with work. 

     John and Uncle found him by midsummer, dragging trouble along behind them as usual. They'd exchanged greetings and exclamations of surprise at the fact that they were all alive. John was an angry, wiry scrap of a man, but it was good to see him. Comforting to see at least he had gotten out, that he seemed okay and none the worse for wear from everything that had happened. He shouldn't be so surprised, Charles thought, John always seemed to be indestructible, even in the short time he'd known the other man.  

     He didn't expect John to have made it as far as to own a ranch, but by the time they made it back from the city over the border, it was clear they had both been embellishing at best. The piece of land was little more than a dump at first glance, but it was clear that someone at least had been making efforts to clear the junk strewn about. The plot was rocky and sparse, and the only thing still standing on it besides the fence was a beat up old shack Charles wasn't sure would make it much longer. 

     It wasn't much longer before they had torn down the shack themselves, Uncle pushing hard for them to build an actual house on the land in order to win back favor. It was no secret between the three that the rest of the Marston family was simply missing from the picture, and Charles had learned not long ago that Abigail had left with their son. It'd been upsetting to hear, and then angering on further thought, that John got a second chance on such a steep price, and seemed to be wasting it all away acting just the same as he had before everything had gone to shit. 

     Charles couldn't exactly blame him, he guessed, it'd been hard on everyone close to Arthur. But he could imagine it was particularly bad for someone who had grown up with him and been around for so damn long with people he saw as family. But there was still that nagging feeling that everything had been in vain if the already strained family stayed broken apart, and Charles had ended up deciding then and there that he would stay and see them all back on their feet. There was no way that they would manage with just the two of them, a hot-headed idiot and a lazy one, albeit perhaps Uncle was less of an idiot than he liked to appear.  

     They'd been through a second hell dealing with the Skinners, a seemingly demonic cult hiding in the redwoods, risking their hides for a few damn tools. All of this had culminated to him being here now, half collapsed against the frame of a grand ranch house, the floorboards finished yesterday and the barest skeleton of a few rooms standing today. They'd been at it since morning, and now a few hours past noon, the sun beat down too hard for any of them to want to continue at all. They all passed a canteen of cool water, and although he expected it, being passed the water once again jerked him from his thoughts. John looked to him with an odd expression, as if he wanted to speak but wasn't sure what he was going to say, or if he was even completely sure that he wanted to begin with. "What is it?" 

     Charles had never been overly fond of John or thought much of him at all, but simply from what they'd been through even vaguely together, there was a sort of mutual respect. 

     "Nothing...just, Christ I don't know," John tripped over his words, taking back the offered canteen. "I guess I'm wonderin' why you're here, helping. We're not close, I appreciate it...but why?" John sounded conflicted, maybe even upset, but he couldn't tell why. He pondered the question for a moment before shrugging, leaning heavy back onto the pile of beams behind them. 

     "I have nothing else to do, I guess. The work is nice, and I know you. I thought you didn't mind me being here." Though it ended on a pointed note, Charles meant nothing but to explain his train of thought, though much of it was omitted from not wanting to cause a fallout before they were finished.

     "I don't, it's just that I don't get why...not really." 

     He didn't need to know, it wasn't his business after all, but there was a sort of obligation to explain that lay beneath the entire conversation that finally broke him into a deep sigh.

     "Because I promised Arthur that I'd help you. I know he meant just back then, but...you know what he did for you. I don't want to see it wasted, you need the help. He was-" 

     "I know. And...about you two," He faltered once more, giving a shrug before simply looking to Charles with a question plastered on his worn features. "Were you?"

     "Yes. Let's get back to work, enough prodding."  

     John was defensive as usual when his flaws were brought into question, but there was a genuine quietness to the simple two words. The uncharacteristic understanding was a shock, but not an unpleasant one. There was nothing else to say between them, but an offered hand, once he'd gotten back up, spoke more than any words would have been able to. 

     The house was completed a few days afterward, the sole focus for both of them after even such a brief conversation. It has been reassuring to see just how much John was trying, determined enough to take being bossed around by their now supervisor Uncle, and pleased as could be when they were finally done, as much as he'd tried to hide it. The place was still a mess, dust and curled cedar shavings floating through the air and dancing in the light filtering through the open windows as they let it sit for a day, although they'd all abandoned that idea slightly when the heat returned right on schedule. 

     The next few days were a blur of sleep and recovery from the long weeks of work on the home, and recuperating from their celebration that had gone just a bit too far with the alcohol. Ever since he'd been brought up again, Arthur has stayed in the back of his mind through distraction and work, despite his best efforts to push those memories back down. They'd been brought up once again and there was a need for closure, some unspoken milestone with the completion of the house that drew him back to that spot he'd thought he would never see again all those years ago. A compulsion that lead him back down rocky mountain paths with company this time. 

     John had wanted to visit for a while now, occasionally asking since his initial question of where and when he'd buried Arthur.  It wasn't until days after their work was done that they'd both committed to leaving on the trip up here, among the wildflowers and thin, crisp air. There wasn't much to see, and Charles wasn't sure now why he'd thought this was such a perfect spot, but it was charming and quiet enough. He'd left John alone after guiding him up, too awkward to stand around and put pressure on each other to keep it together for the sake of appearances. As stunted as he was, Charles was sure the younger man would suppress anything as long as someone was around that might see any emotion that might be considered weakness. So he stood in silence with both their horses at the foot of the hill and waited. 

     It was barely half an hour since they'd arrived that he came back down, splotchy around the nose with eyes cast on the ground. John had merely muttered he'd meet him back in town and hurried his horse off down the trail without another word. Charles didn't chase him or bother trying to call after him while knowing how John lashed out when experiencing any strong emotion. He was gone before there could have been any conversation, anyway, so Charles just left him to his own devices to get home. He'd be fine, he reckoned, climbing the hill himself now. It wasn't too much different from when he'd been here the first time, overlooking the ravine where the river ran, and the bridge that had been long since repaired, barely visible over the crest of trees. The flowers were back, although fewer and further between in the summer heat, safe in the shade of the trees and flourishing there in that safe haven. As sheltered as they were, they were still as beautiful as he remembered them. 

     The first thing he'd noticed besides the flowers was that the dirt over the grave had finally settled, only a small mound left behind, where the grass and weeds had reclaimed the soil and grew wild once again. Thistle grew among the harmless weeds, bright purple flowers scattered amongst yellow, pinks, and reds. The headstone was faded and splintering by now, slightly crooked but still standing in the same place it had been planted. Charles sat quietly at the foot of the grave, eyes closed and listening to the surroundings for what felt like hours before looking once again. He wasn't sure what he expected, something different to form through the scene in front of him, hoping somewhere deep down that maybe he would come back. 

     Arthur was still a sore spot, but one that had developed scar tissue over time. A pain that only ached until pressed upon. It still hurt to think about him, in the early morning hours when memories of them together still crept into his mind. Thoughts of their gentle, secret touches. Ones of sharing a bedroll under a great, sparkling sky. Of hunting trips where they rarely spoke a word but still understood each other deeper than Charles had ever felt with anyone else.  Of a love so great it had threatened to overwhelm him more times than he could count but had never been frightening. Arthur had been the dearest to him, a piece of his life that fit just right and filled what spaces he hadn't even truly known were so empty until that weight was there. They had loved each other, and that would never go away forever, although one of them was gone now. It was still there, under the surface to remind him it was possible and warm and so very nice to love another. He took time to simply sit, breathe, and be, surrounded by sunlight and warmth. 

     This time, when he reached to brush away the old leaves and dirt from the cross, there was little but a soft bristling of thorns.


	3. Clover

     Months passed without incident aside from Sadie's occasional visits to enlist John to help her with particularly tricky bounties. He long suspected something else was at play there, Sadie was far more than competent enough to take people in on her own, Charles couldn't think of any real reason why she'd want someone else along. They'd split the money from the bounties, John putting it towards his newfound debt on the land and home that they'd set up in the past year. Charles and Sadie had spoken several times as well, meandering around the fence of the ranch and awkwardly at first speaking here and there about things they'd seen or done since the fracturing of the gang. Sadie hadn't been there long at all before it all went to shit, and neither had he, really, but it was still a sore subject.

     They had gone to walk the fence now once again, hands stuffed into his pocket as they looked toward the rolling plains outside the ranch. Charles wasn't sure what she wanted from him this time besides company as she stuck around for dinner before heading out again, but she seemed on edge more than usual, closer to him and worrying her lip until they were out of earshot of the house. Charles let her speak when she was ready to, blurting and stopping right in front of him when they were far enough away to not be heard. "I've been hearing about someone who sounds a hell of a lot like our rat."

     Micah. The moment it took between hearing the information and actually processing it felt strangely blank, as moved and angry as he always imagined himself to be if this ever happened. "You mean Micah?"

     "Yes, I mean Micah. Who else do you think I meant?"

     Charles had been around her enough to know that her annoyance wasn't anything to worry about, as blunt as Sadie was she was someone he considered a true friend. Rarely had they ever talked before the bank heist went awry, but in the aftermath, they had worked together as if they'd known each other all their lives. Shaking himself from his thoughts, Charles shrugged quietly at first, looking back to her after a moment and finding that familiar spark of determination burning in blue eyes.

     "So what are we going to do about it?" He was smarter than to ask if she wanted to go after him, they all did, but now it was complicated. Charles would go regardless of anything, but there were other people to think about now. This could get them all into trouble, if not now then some other day down the road when it finally caught up. Everything he'd help work on here might go to waste if they told John, but they couldn't just leave him out. He'd lost not only a friend but a brother as well in Arthur.

     She seemed to understand, shrugging as well before shoving her thumbs into her belt loops as they walked along. "If it's him, we kill him," Sadie looked as though she wanted to spit, scowling at the dirt before looking back to him. "You promised, so did John, but...he's got all this now."

     "He'll still want to come, and we can't stop him. That's his choice." His reply was drug down with doubts, and a wish maybe for just once John might realize what he was putting at stake, especially if his family decided to return before they got word from Sadie again.

     "I know, Charles. I'm not stopping either of you, I want us all there for what he did to everyone."

-

     They had found Micah weeks later, had all ridden hard to Strawberry and further north to the mountains. John had ended up coming as they both knew he would, despite Abigail screaming at him the entire way out of the house. Charles was still troubled by what had happened there, up on the mountain just like where this had all started. It was selfish to think he'd been robbed of at least seeing Micah dead, considering who he'd killed and what he'd destroyed. The gang had been the closest thing he'd had to feeling like he belonged again after losing his father, it had been a place where he was needed and mostly liked, around people he'd stayed with longer than any others. But more importantly, there had been Arthur, someone so dear to him and loved more than any other who had been ripped away too soon. On most days he flipped between self-loathing and reminding himself no one was truly at fault, the ambush had been so unexpected on top of extremely well planned to have caught all three of them off guard. His shoulder still twinged with pain and he stepped down off of the tall wagon, boots crunching into the gravel of the well-traveled road below.

     Charles had said his goodbyes to the living through last night and now this morning, as stunted as they were, he'd left everyone on good terms. It hurt to leave the family far more than he ever thought it would have a year ago, but seeing Abigail and John married and finally seemingly happy had endeared him to stick around a bit longer, having to truly debate whether he wanted to ultimately move on at all, or settle here with some sense of normalcy, as lonely as it would have been in the long run. But Charles had decided to go when closure had healed him enough to. He'd left the house and found a gift laid on the buckboard bench - a worn, loved old journal, though some of the pages were cut out.

     The path up the hill had been ingrained in him after visiting so often now on days where he felt the need to talk, or to just get away from other's expectations of work or attention. This time however it felt different, knowing this may very well be the last time he climbed this path and sat in this same patch of grass.

     "I hope you don't get angry with me, but I am going to go through this. I won't read too much."

     He hadn't intended for that to be a lie, but Charles had become engrossed in the passages, sitting quietly to read page after page, comforted in them. It was like hearing Arthur speak again, unfiltered and real in the neat strokes of cursive that went far into the margins and was littered with drawings or small doodles. There was a strong wave of love that came back over him reading through, realized again in Arthur's closest words and worries, the insights about how he saw the world in his carefully rendered art, things he held dear enough to press between the pages and keep close at all times.

     No one would ever replace Arthur, he knew that from the moment they'd met, but in sitting and reading and seeing how much he'd wanted good in the end for all of them it became clear maybe finding someone else to love just the same wasn't as traitorous as he'd always thought. He was laying out on the warm patches of blooming clover that spread from the settled grave after a while of reading and admiring when he came to the last page, dog eared again and again, with scribbles here and there on the page before it finally started;

_'Charles,_

_This is all coming to an end, I fear. We all know it, and you were smart enough to stay gone while you could. I don't blame you, so I do not want you to think that if you can help it. I do not know truly why I am writing this, besides I miss you and I would like to see you again before this comes to a close, but I know I will not. I wish I could find someone to mail you this, years in the future, and you could come to find me like in those god awful novels Mary-Beth is always giving me to read, but I do not know how it will turn out for anyone else either. Not well, I imagine, despite my best efforts. I suppose I want you to know I love you, more than anyone or anything, although it does not show. And I hope someday you can read this and find something worth holding onto in it._

_Love and good luck, Arthur.'_

     There, pressed in the faded pages was a peak of green, several clovers just as the ones he lay in now, all four-leaved in a line beneath the signature.

 


End file.
